The first load of U.S. Mail left San Antonio on Nov. 27, 1857 on a mule-drawn stage bound for San Diego, California.
At the reins were George and James Giddings, old hands at hauling freight and the occasional paying customer through Indian infested West Texas. Undeterred by the fate of their brother Giles, one of the few Anglo-Americans killed at the Battle of San Jacinto, they headed for Texas in 1845.
Taking what looked like a permanent detour at Louisville, Kentucky, both came down with small pox. Sure his patients had expired, the attending physician was wondering what to do with the bodies, when George suddenly sat up in bed and shouted in protest, “I’ll be damned if I’ll die!”
“Well, I’ll be damned if you do die!” the doctor exclaimed in amazement. “You’ve pulled yourself back to life!”
The hardy Pennsylvanians recovered and resumed their journey to Texas. After seven hair-raising years on the Lone Star frontier, they signed on to carry the mail from San Antonio to Santa Fe, New Mexico. In the summer of 1857, the postmaster general awarded the coveted California contract to James Birch, who hired the experienced Giddings boys.
With their invaluable experience, the inaugural run was made that November. Postage was three cents per half ounce for West Coast delivery, while the full fare for human cargo to San Diego was a whopping $200. Passengers going only as far as El Paso were charged $100 even though they never left the confines of the sprawling state.
A ticket cost several times the average monthly wage, but those that could afford it rode in style. The San Antonio-to-San Diego stage line featured the latest in modern transportation, the 3,000 pound Concord coach. Made of the finest hickory and equipped with leather seats, the luxurious conveyance cushioned the well-to-do traveler against the ups and downs of the bumpy road with a newfangled leather brace suspension system.
While comfortable by mid-nineteenth century standards, the trip to San Diego was undeniably dangerous. By far the most perilous part of the route was the isolated stretch from San Antonio to El Paso.
Attacks by hostile Indians occurred with frightening frequency on the first leg of the long journey. Birch had been in business less than a month, when a war party waylaid a passing stagecoach. George Giddings rode along as shotgun on the next trip, which nearly was his last. Renegades ambushed the stage coach nine miles from Fort Davis, forcing the driver to make a desperate dash for the sanctuary.
“The six horses were given their heads and ran all the way to Fort Davis, the Indians following close up to the post,” Giddings reported. “The coach was filled with arrows which they shot into it. We kept up a steady fire from our revolvers, and one of our horses dropped dead just as we pulled up at the Fort Davis Post Office. It was an exciting encounter.”
The stage line office in El Paso was not much safer. To discourage burglars, the head clerk and his young assistant took turns sleeping on the premises. After spending the night in his own bed, the clerk showed up for work to find the office stripped of everything worth stealing and his single employee dead on the floor with 14 stab wounds.
Just three months into the undertaking, James Birch drowned off the coast of South Carolina. George Giddings took his place and put brother James in charge of the Arizona stations.
James enjoyed unusually cordial relations with the Apaches until an army lieutenant stupidly insulted Cochise. Confident he could patch things up with the temperamental chief, he ventured into tribal territory with 13 armed volunteers.
But Cochise was too angry to talk and sent 250 warriors to meet the white intruders. With no hope of victory or escape, the Giddings group held out for two days. Eventually they ran out of ammunition and were butchered except for a lone survivor, who spread the word of the slaughter.
George learned of James’ tragic death the same day news reached El Paso that the secessionists had fired on Fort Sumter. He immediately closed up shop and joined the Confederate forces.
After the Civil War, George Giddings spent a dozen years trying to squeeze a quarter of a million dollars out of the federal government. That was how much he figured he was owed for the damage done to his defunct stage line by the Indians.
To no one’s surprise, certainly not his own, Giddings never got a dime.
This is the week “Texas Boomtowns: A History of Blood and Oil” will be published. Order your autographed copy of Bartee’s latest book by mailing a check for $28.80 to Bartee Haile, P.O. Box 152, Friendswood, TX 77549 or on-line at barteehaile.com.
